


Deliverance

by rxdiansa (vaebled)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Assault, Blood, Cannibalism, Character Death, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay, Growth, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Mutilation, Original Character(s), Personal Growth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Pre-Zombie Apocalypse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Stabbing, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:50:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23534278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaebled/pseuds/rxdiansa
Summary: Fait is...just a man who can't catch a break. From early childhood to the end of his life, he is met with hardship at every turn, used and abused by all around him. He has a pitiful sense of self-esteem and believes himself to be worthy of little else besides being everyone's plaything. There is one person in his life who has managed to give him an ounce of relief, a moment to rest, a shoulder to cry on, but he is gone.[ This is a collection of chronological events and happenings regarding Fait's life and relationship with a man named Liam. There will be breaks of silly and sometimes very sad dumps of information in between exceptionally rough chapters. ]
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	1. Trauma

**Author's Note:**

> Fait is a completely original character and was made to...more or less serve to represent many unfortunate aspects about life. This particular work is deeply personal, but it was also written to bring attention to the fact that men often suffer through rape.
> 
> Liam is my dear friend's character and will be a feature in relation to Fait from here on out.

He couldn’t breathe, eyes rolling in their sockets behind a curtain of fluttering lashes, head swimming, a sharp, _throbbing_ pain cracking at the back of his skull. He was woozy, a weight that even Atlas himself couldn’t hold settling into his chest, gut lurching sharply, beads of sweat slipping into his hairline. A soreness echoed through his diminutive frame, lips parting as gasping breaths _tried_ to escape, spine _chilling_ , skin aflame as if he’d been scraped and bruised and _cut_. Every muscle clinging to fractured bones tensed, tightly contracting, and a dark head tilted back, turning, frantic, fear growing with every moment that so sluggishly passed.

But he couldn’t remember what happened, thoughts rifling through images of winding hallways, faces of those he’d hated, who hated him, teachers, students, lockers, bathrooms, stairwells... All people who’d made him bleed and all places he’d bled, slinking off like a beaten cat with ears torn and tail kinked, ribs cracked, clothes ripped away, thighs spread and pushed till knees touched his ears-- So often had he been brutalized in dirty bathroom stalls, face pressed and shoved against graffitied tile, hair tightly wound around a fist he couldn’t evade, insults and obscenities whispered into pierced ears, by teachers, the football team... A toy for them to play with when they were bored of their girlfriends, their wives.

Fingers pressed to a clammy brow, his heart rate skyrocketing, the beating muscle hammering against his ribcage - but it hadn’t been just one hand, it was both, and his wrists ached, leather _biting_ into his skin. Honeyed eyes snapped open, fluorescent white lighting momentarily blinding him, lips and teeth immediately honing in on thick, studded leather and biting, gnawing, tugging, pulling, _hissing_. When his eyes could adjust, he could see the black _belt_ strapped around his arms, blue tile surrounding him, metallic stall walls littered in expletives and threats, ugly tan dirtied by teenage bullshit-- and the weight was lifted from his chest, his head _pounding_ as he breathed in, quick, harried, gasping.

Then, he knew.

It was _her_ \- and she pushed him down a flight of stairs when he dared to turn away from her, resist her advances, shut his eyes and shake his head as _no_ flew from his mouth.

Long, dark hair drew his eye and stoic olive features came into view, eyes devoid of emotion, feminine, cold, _terrifying_. Peeking between his fingers, his breath caught in his throat and he ripped his arms away from his face, flailing, shaking, yowling, _screaming_ to get away from her. His shoulder nailed porcelain and frantically did he glance up, the curve of a toilet bowl and then her _face--_ He pushed against the tile, wheezing, whimpering, trying to flee, but she almost…almost _growled_ at him, the sound of a starving, rabid animal, aggressive and violent, her expression icy and unchanging. Why? _Why_? Why him? Why was it always _him_?

She’d been after him for months, taking pictures every chance she got, threatening him, sending him photos of mutilated _cats_ , begging, _demanding_ his attention. She’d follow him home, trail behind him during passing period, isolate him from any who might’ve had an interest in him, robbing him of any possible friendships, unsuccessful with only _one_ and he...he would protect him with everything he had. Oh, if only-- If only! If only he knew where he was. _Liam..._ But all he could smell was _her_ , the violating sensation of her gaze on his form, and as the eerie silence stretched between them, he only felt more and more afraid. She gave to him only her obsession, selfish, idealistic comments, and a vicious blow to the gut every time he snapped a _no_ and this-- This was no different.

Rather, it was… _worse_.

He swallowed thickly. Why couldn’t she just take his answer and move the fuck on? Why couldn’t she just accept that he wasn’t... _straight_? What was so special about him that she would do this, frighten him with slaughtered animals, cats torn to shreds, kittens crushed with guts strewn across the asphalt? Why did she follow him everywhere he went, put her hands on his hips and _beg_ , demand, _command_ his attention? What did he do? What was it about him? Was it his hips, the way he dressed, his rejection alone? Was he a prize to be won, a mind to be changed? She dug her nails into open wounds, straddling naked hips, now. Why? Why? _Liam, Liam..._ The only one that...that even pretended to care about him...

_Where are you, Liam?_

Hot tears welled up in his eyes, blurring a face he didn’t want to see in the first place, fangs catching on a chapped lip. He breathed quickly, head returning to the cold tile, goosebumps rising on his skin. The one time Liam couldn’t come to his rescue, certain he’d made it to his next class or his afternoon shift of work, something so awful-- The cold glint of silver caught his attention and eyes widened until they _burned_ , his blood chilling to _ice_ in his veins, tears slipping down his cheeks, the tip of the _knife_ trailing up the edge of his jaw to the ball of his chin, down the column of his throat, along his collar... He flinched and jerked, iron red gaze fixed on the blade as Alex- as _she_ pressed it into his sternum, cutting into fabric, dragging it against his skin. He wept, shaking, mewling, kicking his legs and jerking his hips, flailing, _fighting_ against her, but she wouldn’t budge, squeezing her thighs around his own, glaring down her nose at him.

All because he said _no_. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her. He didn’t want her! He wanted Liam. He wanted strong fingers to sweep down his spine and draw him close, to protect him, _shield him_ from all those who’d dared to hurt him. He wanted to watch him fight in the ring, weave his fingers into his hair and breathe in the scent of smoke, whiskey, and salty perspiration, nose a smooth jaw, dance for him in one of the few moments they had alone. He wanted _him_. Lips quivered over his teeth and he whimpered, struggling against her, every effort _fruitless_. He found no purchase, no comfort in the slip of the leather around his wrists, his chest _tight_ , his throat closing—

“F-Fuck you, Alexandra... Fuck you,” he hissed, trying so _hard_ to get away and screaming when the hem of his shirt was yanked upward and metal bore into his belly. Legs and feet banged against the stall door, eyes impossibly wide, voice dying in his throat, back involuntarily arching, hot tears streaming down his face. “Liam... L-Liam...”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!” she screamed, but he couldn’t hear her over the rush of blood in his ears, kicking and screaming, begging for the wolf he so adored, hyper aware of the slicing of his flesh, blood bubbling out of the wound, agonized, the sharpest pain pervading every square inch of him. It stung. It burned. It made him nauseous, tail flapping like a fish out of water, ears plastered to his skull, screaming, screaming, screaming-- “Why won’t you look at _me_?! Why won’t you let me have you, you stupid, _useless_ fucking animal? Why is it always him? That fucking freak... It’s always him. Why can’t it be _me_? _I’m_ the one that’s fucking _here_! Not him!”

He covered his eyes, iron filling his nostrils, blood staining his skin as it poured out of him. It hurt so much... _Liam..._ He... _loved_ him, taken by his fighting spirit, those jade green eyes, a voice that so effortlessly soothed him, how comfortable – how _safe_ he was with him... He loved his muscular frame. He loved burying his nose into the crook of his neck as a protective arm would sling around his shoulders. He loved the way he smelled, how dearly he loved his kitten, seeing him in the mornings, holding his hands, sharing breakfast and dinner together, visiting with his family, kissing him, purring his name—“I..I love him,” he spat, weak even in his vicious display of confidence, bucking his hips so as to shake her off of him, turning with the hopes of getting the knife out of him—

But she pushed _deeper_ , yanked to the left and all he saw was _red_ , his throat raw with the screams no one would hear, head slamming against the tile beneath him.

“He’s not going to save you. Don’t you get it? He doesn’t love _you_ and he never will. No one will ever love you like I do, Fait. _No one_. I’ll show you. I’ll show you and you’ll be a good boy and accept it. You won’t tell me no anymore.” Any strength he had left abandoned him as crazed ramblings hit his ear drums, his hopes withering with the slow grinding of her hips against his own, and the horror he felt when he realized he was hard had only just spread across freckled features. It was fear... It had to be. He was _gay_. He...he didn’t-- He hated women. No, _no_ , no, no, no, _no, no, no_. This was _wrong_ and she wouldn’t get off him, wouldn’t stop.

She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop.

Bile rose in his throat, the heavy stench of his own blood stinging his nose, and his belly twisted and knotted with disgust, wheezing. She never pulled the knife out, holding it firmly in place, threatening to push deeper, further, if he protested anymore, his pants beginning to dampen and slow, her breaths louder than the thundering of his heartbeat. _Liam... Please, Liam..._ But fingers tugged and pulled at his waistband, unbuttoning and unzipping them smoothly. _Liam, Liam..._ And he cried, shoulders trembling with sobs, chest aching, choking and sniffling at even the notion that he could be responding to his _stalker_.

How…how could he….

“L-Liam...” he croaked, his body shivering and quaking with every brush of her fingers. Hair that once smelled like apples, whiskey, and faintly of cigarette smoke now smelled distinctly of the bathroom floor, shit, piss, vomit, and a tiny frame that was once pale had now been flooded, _littered_ with scarlet rivulets of blood and injuries he may not survive... He was going to be sick, gagging, lightheaded, woozy. He said no... He tried...but his cheeks were wet with tears and every ounce of him was rigid and cold, hands covering tearful eyes, still bound and aching, bleeding from the belt cutting into his skin, and he _stopped_ trying. Legs stopped kicking, teeth buried deeper into his lower lip, and bile bubbled into his mouth, sour, acidic, hot, and _disgusting_ when she pulled his fucking cock out, shifting atop him so that he was pressed against wet folds—

“Stop saying his fucking name.”

“N-no... Stop, _stop_! Please...please,” came his desperate cry, quick, broken, and just as soon as the words slipped from a bile-slick tongue had she descended upon him, the softest of moans like nails on a chalkboard in his ears. All he could do was sob, pain ripping through his entire body, an avalanche, a flood, swallowing what filled his mouth. Blood, vomit, saliva. This was wrong, so wrong, and Liam was nowhere to be found. Of course he wouldn’t be here...of course not. How was he to know that he’d be in trouble anyway? How—

“He _graduated_ , don’t you remember? He’ll never come back for you.” An airy, _pleased_ whisper, as if she was so fucking _satisfied_ by delivering such an earth-shattering fact.

And he wailed, tears pouring from his eyes as flashes of Liam with his diploma in his hands came to mind, sandy blond so neatly cut atop his head-- He refused to wear the gown, the stupid cap...and he’d...he’d been there that day, watched him command the attention of his classmates as he met with the principal to take his diploma in hand – and he’d _sat_ with him, held his hand, fawned over him and beamed with pride. Of course he wasn’t coming. How stupid of him to almost expect that he’d be there to save him. How could he have forgotten...? How hard did he hit his head? How much blood had he lost already…? Liam wasn’t coming to save him. He wasn’t going to protect him. He wasn’t-- He was gone. He was gone... She was right, she was right, she was right.

Would he ever see him again? _Liam_ —

Hot, wet, walls tightened around him—

“No-- L-Liam, Liam, _Liam,_ **Liam**!” he cried, repeating his name over and over again, screaming it, whimpering, as if it would bring him back. But it wouldn’t.

And as he screamed for a man he wasn’t so sure he would ever see again, she _moaned_ , free hand winding around his throat and _squeezing_ , slowly applying more and more pressure until he’d fallen silent.


	2. Frigid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fait attempts to drown himself in the high school's pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fait's character will deal with a lot of uncomfortably real subjects, as noted in the previous part, and this will include rape, assault, self-harm, suicide, depression, disease, etc. Growth and trauma are themes that are very prevalent in my writing and this is especially true as it pertains to Fait.
> 
> While Liam is not mentioned here, he will be in the future.

Time ticked ever onward at a snail's pace, the minute hand on the clock dragging behind the second hand, and an iron-red stare held firm to the time-keeping contraption if for no other reason than to lose himself to monotony. Black numbers upon a white background, the hands in between each one, hanging above the only entry into the pool area. The chill in the air outside had made the usually cooler room feel a bit warmer, and the same could be said for the chlorinated water. Sharp eyes drew away for a moment, briefly glancing down at an unclear reflection, feet almost lazily (but purposefully) kicking beneath the water, further disturbing a face he had no desire to see. Long lashes hung low over red, pupils narrowing into slits, and he returned his gaze to the clock, listening to the faint echo of its _ticking_.  
  
  
He'd taken solace in the pool, hidden away from the rest of the students until swim practice began, free to silently ponder the point of it all and wait until evening came, until the sky had gone dark as the sun sunk below the horizon and facing the inevitable was no longer avoidable. What awaited him at home was, no doubt, a man coated thickly in the scent of whiskey and cigarettes, hands aching to yank, drag, pummel, and for nothing at all he could offer to be quite good enough for another moment's respite. Mercy was not his father's strong suit and, he supposed, it never had been. Why else would his other have left? He couldn't blame her, not really, though the question would arise in the wee hours of the morning: _Why did she not take me with her?_ It was no more cutting than his father's words or the beating of his hands upon his back, his face, or the breaking of his bones; Rather, it was much less so, as Fait had long since given up any _hope_ of fleeing his home. He _knew_ he would claw his way out, but _hope_ had no stake in this, for there could only be so much suffering before hope would become a dull and empty sentiment reserved only for the naive - or stupid. Bitterness was a common taste on the feline's tongue and it wasn't one he would so soon discard, replace, or forget. _Pain_ wasn't something he could so easily avoid, despite the seemingly random parts of his body doing their damnedest to kill his nerves, numb him to the brutality he would most assuredly face the second he stepped foot in his father's home.  
  
  
A rigid intake of breath and he pulled his eyes off the clock yet again, this time staring into the palms of his hands and the bandages so tightly concealing them. Bruised knuckles and knicks and cuts too shallow for stitches but too long or wide for bandaids had all but been tucked beneath sterile gauze, and they'd ached, stung with the same intesnity as when such wounds had been inflicted. The faint ticking of the hands of the clock faded as ears swiveled backward and flattened into his hair. In fact, much of his surroundings fell by the wayside, negligable details of a life he'd no true intentions of continuing to live, and attentions fell squarely on the state of his body. It was only a handful of months ago that his nose had been broken, before summer began, and if that was the beginning of his high school career, when the eyes of others began to roam his body, then the rest of it would only worsen. Of this, he was absolutely certain. To be regarded as so disgusting and foul by his classmates came as no surprise and his own behaaviour could only cement their presumable opinions about him, but it hurt even so, because it wouldn't stop at mere opinions - and _provably_. His reputation would always be inherently negative and he would be seen as a dirty whore at best, to which many would take the opportunity of manipulating to their benefit. He supposed even _he_ took advantage of the situations and scenarios he would so often be thrust into, but rarely as a means of deriving pleasure and it would result in the pain he both hated, and needed to feel some form of release from the _other_ pains in his life. The cuts and bruises would multiply exponentially, as would all his other injuries, and a small, mutated body would just have to continue suffering the damage, but if he sustained too much more too frequently, he very well may reach a point of no return.

  


Had he cared? _Really_ cared? Maybe, to a point, but so much of him wanted the relief that only a rich blackness could provide.

  


He settled his hands on either side of him, curling his fingers around the cement edge of the pool, if only so that he could inch himself further over the ledge and finally drop in until he was fully submerged with little to no regard for the clothes on his back. He held his breath, allowing himself to either sink or rise to the surface, iron-red eyes burning as chlorine touched them. He was drowning in life; What difference would it have made if the cause of his death had been the same? Emptiness was a constant. Not sadness, not even really pain. _Emptiness_ , the hollow beat of his heart, the truth of a shitty hand dealt to him from his birth to these moments. Bubbles escaped the corners of lips and for a time, he was suspended, peacefully, in the stagnant pool, cuts beginning to burn in tandem with his eyes. It wasn't so much freeing as it was a temporary stretch of time spent in release, the world around him a shade of blue he could drown in without having to recieve a beating, without having his choices taken from him or his body poisoned by the hands, the breaths, the _mouths_ of others. Fingers slowly drew to his belly, lifting the hem of his hoodie, tracing the puffy scars along his ribs if only to shift lower and hover over the scab by his groin. All of this...proof of his worth, proof of his place in the grand scheme of it all in that he didn't actually have one. Eyes screwed shut and his heart fluttered, the beat becoming rapid, but still he kept himself beneath the surface, fingers lingering where the pain was greater.  
  
  
He was tired, oh, he was so _tired_. Exhausted of the agonizing day-to-day, the insult and injury suffered as if he'd afforded no other way to live... His ears began to ring as blood pumped through his veins, his chest tightening as his breaths escaped him, bubbles pouring from his mouth, his nose. Water flooded into him, invasive and unforgiving, and though he swallowed some of it, he was _choking_ , fighting against an impulsively planned outcome, struggling to reach the surface despite how hard he pushed himself to _die_. Self-preservation would always win in the end, wouldn't it? He could flail, roll and voicelessly scream to no one that would care to listen, but he would always rise and painfully inhale, splutter, struggle then for air - and the process would repeat for weeks, months, until hope for that, too, would fade.  
  
  
Bleary red eyes would blink away excess water in vain, for tears would only take the water's place and he would have only the pain of his life to hold onto.


End file.
